


Invigorate

by varooooom



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:06:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varooooom/pseuds/varooooom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin is not a soldier, he is not meant for death and destruction. Arthur knows war, and he knows its aftermath; he'll guide Merlin through it however he must.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invigorate

**Author's Note:**

> Porn with a minimal amount of plot. For the plot with minimal amount of porn, there's the companion piece, [Revitalise](http://archiveofourown.org/works/532291), which is told from Merlin's POV.
> 
> Warnings: I put dub-con up there because Merlin is kind of not in his right state of mind and Arthur is sort of indulging him, but it's still consensual in an established relationship. There's rough sex and marking, but no real abuse. It's not everyone's cup of tea; approach with caution.

In the midst of battle, the air is always thick and heavy, charged with adrenaline, the stench of sweat and blood, and the ever lingering promise of 'this could be your last.' For a warrior like Arthur, it's intoxicating. He _thrives_ on it, fuelled from head to toe with the drive to live, to outlast the enemy, to move forward with the strength in his hands and the beating of his heart. It becomes all he knows until the wage is won, and they're left breathing deeply of free air and the sensation of victory tingling across their skin.

But it's different with Merlin.

 _Everything_ is different with Merlin, a fact that Arthur has come to terms with over their many years together. The meaning of ' _on time_ ' no longer stands as whenever Arthur has need of him but rather whenever Merlin manages to get his lazy arse to Arthur's side. The lengths between station are no longer due diligence to the King from his advisor but snark and banter and kisses stolen in the darkest hours of the night when no one else is awake to hear Merlin call Arthur by his title. Things don't work the same way in the idiot's world; for all Arthur knows, his version of the Sun may very well rise in the West.

Battles are no exception.

Or rather, it's the same - but different in a drastic way. When the air is charged around Merlin, it is _literally_ charged, raw, unbridled power crackling in the air around him. It's sometimes enough to stir the horses, as animals are far more in tune with the essence of nature, but Arthur sees it just as well in the golden shine of Merlin's eyes. Every sorcerer across the land knows Merlin is more powerful than any other, and for ordinary men, there is something terrifying in its assertion over the field. Static dances across the air around him in waves; the grass and trees waver around his feet as though the very earth herself is bowing before his might, and when he commands the very heavens and rains death upon Camelot's greatest foes - there is something frightful in that.

For Arthur, it's simply beautiful. For Merlin, though - it's intoxicating on a wholly new level.

He twists and wraps the laws of the world around his long, nimble fingers. He weaves the threads of existence however he pleases and bends the elements to his will. Merlin doesn't _have_ magic, he _is_ magic, and when he steps into that field and lets it all flow into him and through him and around him - there is no stronger drug, no higher high. Where warriors like Arthur thrive on the heat of battle, Merlin exists above it and within it. He becomes it, and such overwhelming power can be difficult to come down from.

Arthur knows this, has witnessed it and learnt it well, so when the last man falls and the Knights turn to cheering, Arthur turns to his warlock and finds him _glowing_ with his energy.

"Merlin," he calls, wrapping leather clad fingers around a thin arm, strong with muscle but never filled to Arthur's brawny sort of thickness. Merlin doesn't even look up at him, the golden shimmer of his magic illuminating the stirred up dust in the air and making him appear inhuman. Unbridled power. Beautiful.

He grips Arthur's wrist tightly - too tightly, tighter than he would ordinarily be capable of and there's sure to be bruises later - and drags him roughly into Arthur's tent. It near always comes down to this, Arthur knows. Merlin is bursting with energy desperate to go somewhere, and it all lands upon _Arthur_ , washing over him like a heavy wave in a tumultuous storm. Merlin's magic hits him hard and Arthur loses his breath as it strips him, tears apart the buckles and straps of his armour that Merlin will have to fix later. Later - as he sheds mail and cloth to the ground with the harsh grip of his fingertips digging into Arthur's hair, teeth baring into the juncture of his shoulder and neck. 

Arthur would hiss at the pain of it if he could _breathe_ , but the space of his tent is heated impossibly with the intensity of Merlin's magic, his drive, his _need_. It fills his lungs possessively, presses in on every inch of his naked skin to leave its own marks and bruises alongside those from the battle. Merlin is hungry with it, clawing across Arthur's back and scraping his teeth down his neck, over his chest, marking him with his tongue and cruel bites and sucks. Arthur can do nothing but cling to Merlin's shoulders through his ministrations, weak from exertion and trembling from the loss of his own high as he's swept up into Merlin's instead.

But this isn't Merlin. Merlin as a lover is sweet and gentle, tender in a way that makes Arthur blush and call Merlin a girl because they are _men_ and their desire for each other is nothing as innocent as the kisses Merlin presses into every inch of his skin with reverence. No, this is not Merlin; they do not kiss here, and Merlin does not take his time to pour his love and affection over Arthur's body like the slow-drifting water of a lazy stream. This is harsh and fast, leaving no room for quarter when Merlin shoves Arthur towards the hay-stuffed mattress in the corner. He doesn't stop to press his lips to the places he has learnt as Arthur's most sensitive, and he doesn't touch anywhere near Arthur's now straining and leaking cock. Merlin simply grabs Arthur's thighs and pushes his knees to his chest, exposing him like he's nothing more than a common whore rather than his King, his love, his life.

It's not Merlin, it's _war_ , and Merlin's magic fills Arthur's most private places to let him slam his cock into the tight, unprepared hole that stretches far too quickly, slicked only with the magic's touch. Arthur arches back with a shout, a cry, but his men know better than to come running for this. Merlin is feral, dangerous, and there is nothing in all the world that can stop him from asserting this power over him, so Arthur lets him. Lets him pound into his body in deep, aching thrusts that jerk his entire body and chafe his skin against the rough fabric beneath them, lets him imprint the shape of his hands on his thighs as he holds Arthur open, lets Merlin take him in every sense of the word.

Merlin is soundless, breathing heavily but saying nothing as he keeps his head bowed and fucks Arthur viciously. Arthur is _loud_ , hitched breaths and strangled cries spilling from his lips with every rough pushpullpushpull. He chokes a mindless litany of Merlin's name, hands buried in the thin bedsheet and tearing it apart; he'd cling to Merlin, but Merlin doesn't liked to be touched like this, snaps and snarls when Arthur tries to gentle him or make this anything other than what it is: a brutal dominance, an adrenaline high, Merlin's _victory_. He's lost in it, so Arthur lets himself get lost too, giving in to the all-consuming desire until he's keening and rolling his hips back down to meet Merlin's thrusts like a wanton slut that's just _gagging_ for the warlock's cock.

It seems timeless and eternal and over too quickly, rough and fast in a way that leaves Arthur hurting and sore, fucked raw and aching as Merlin's cock pulses inside him. Arthur's own cock, untouched, strings white across his chest and belly when Merlin finally looks at him, eyes fading from gold to blue again once they find Arthur's looking back up at him, and then they're them again. Arthur and Merlin, the King and his sorcerer, two lovers in their makeshift bed on a battlefield away from Camelot but still at home in each other's arms.

It always ends like this. Merlin looks away first, pulls out silently and cleans the both of them up with shaking hands. He wipes Arthur down with a wet cloth, traces every red mark on his body with his lips - some put there by an enemy, some put there by him - until his skin is pink and clean of the grime and filth of war and sex. He touches Arthur gently with light fingers and brief brushes, careful and slow and soothing. He cries and he shakes and Arthur pulls him down to lay against his chest as he mutters nonsense into the heated silence.

"So sorry, I can't, couldn't come down, it's so hard to come down," he says quietly, hysterically, and Arthur brushes his fingers through his hair and holds him close while he shushes him.

"It's okay," Arthur says, kissing Merlin's forehead and his temples and his lips, "It's all right, you're all right."

"It feels so good, Arthur, I don't want to get lost. I don't want to be lost to it, the way she was, I don't want to -" Merlin's hand fists above Arthur's heart, the place where they're joined more than the places their bodies fit together. "I want to come down."

"You will," Arthur says with clear certainty, an absolute faith that makes Merlin lift his head to look into his eyes again. "You will, Merlin. You won't get lost. I'll bring you back. I'll always bring you back."

Merlin kisses him deeply, sweetly, as only lovers do, until the battle is over and won, until they can finally be at rest with victory and loss tingling across their skin.


End file.
